Serge Panine — Complete eBook

The large French window which led to the garden had
just been opened by Marechal, and the mild odors of
a lovely spring night perfumed the drawing-room.
They all went out on the lawn. Thousands of stars
were twinkling in the sky, and the eyes of Micheline
and Pierre were lifted toward the dark blue heavens
seeking vaguely for the star which presided over their
destiny. She, to know whether her life would be
the long poem of love of which she dreamed; he, to
ask whether glory, that exacting mistress for whom
he had made so many sacrifices, would at least comfort
him for his lost love.

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A man weeps with difficulty
before a woman
Antagonism to plutocracy
and hatred of aristocrats
Enough to be nobody’s
unless I belong to him
Even those who do not
love her desire to know her
Flayed and roasted alive
by the critics
Hard workers are pitiful
lovers
He lost his time, his
money, his hair, his illusions
He was very unhappy
at being misunderstood
I thought the best means
of being loved were to deserve it
Men of pleasure remain
all their lives mediocre workers
My aunt is jealous of
me because I am a man of ideas
Negroes, all but monkeys!
Patience, should he
encounter a dull page here or there
Romanticism still ferments
beneath the varnish of Naturalism
Sacrifice his artistic
leanings to popular caprice
Unqualified for happiness
You are talking too
much about it to be sincere

SERGE PANINE

By GEORGES OHNET

BOOK 2.

CHAPTER VII

JEANNE’S SECRET

In the drawing-room Jeanne and Serge remained standing,
facing each other. The mask had fallen from their
faces; the forced smile had disappeared. They
looked at each other attentively, like two duellists
seeking to read each other’s game, so that they
may ward off the fatal stroke and prepare the decisive
parry.

“Why did you leave for England three weeks ago,
without seeing me and without speaking to me?”

“What could I have said to you?” replied
the Prince, with an air of fatigue and dejection.

Jeanne flashed a glance brilliant as lightning:

“You could have told me that you had just asked
for Micheline’s hand!”

“That would have been brutal!”

“It would have been honest! But it would
have necessitated an explanation, and you don’t
like explaining. You have preferred leaving me
to guess this news from the acts of those around me,
and the talk of strangers.”

All these words had been spoken by Jeanne with feverish
vivacity. The sentences were as cutting as strokes
from a whip. The young girl’s agitation
was violent; her cheeks were red, and her breathing
was hard and stifled with emotion. She stopped
for a moment; then, turning toward the Prince, and
looking him full in the face, she said: